The world seems bitter, as I sit in my warmed suite writing this morning. The weather is not all that inclement for this time of year. There’s no rain or snow out; just cold air, while the few trees outside stand stock till in the quiet morning. One nice thing is that I have my suite to repose in, and food to eat three times a day, which is something I never take for granted anymore.

I can remember a day and time when there were those who worked night and day, making it impossible for me to get enough to eat in my life. I think those people were interested in taking my very life away from me, though their motives are not the least bit clear to me, beyond the fact that they’re drug peddlers, who just wanted to make an easy buck.

I was once addicted, which kept me broke and starving on a regular basis. I associated with such people as make a living in the trade of such substances, until I could not afford anything like even one regular meal per day. Those days are long since gone bye. I enjoy the full benefit of my resources and my liberty from hateful, manipulative people.

The overbearing clock on the wall asserts that I have plenty of time to do as I please, before being required – just imagine such a thing as being required – to attend to lunch. The idea that I have regular meals provided for me, in this high class retirement community, is a wonder to behold. The requirement is one of attendance, which I don’t have any problem responding to.

I don’t have any problem consuming a little bit of food three times a day, either.

It’s a remarkable thing that my family has arranged for me to enjoy the possibility of living in a place like assisted living! I would be far less comfortable in a state mental asylum, or in any another sort of retirement home. This one is the best. I have my utter privacy here, until mealtimes, when I must present the body to be nourished in relative elegance.

One of my brothers, the senior surviving individual who has been so gracious as to have me come to his own town, is more or less minding his own business. His wife arranged for me to reside at this wonderful, nice place to stay. I could make all sorts of complaint about how the food is not the best, or any of the rest of it, but I prefer to be grateful for the bounty I now enjoy.

I’m not so alert in the morning, but I am willing to make the attempt to write, whether I have enough to say or I don’t. I have enough on my mind to make for an interesting read, regardless of the fact that I avoid murder and other dastardly deeds in my writing, as I do in the rest of my life these days. One thing leads to another in life, and I don’t need to complicate my Karma with murder.

I don’t believe it’s necessary to hurt people, either in reality or in the confines of my own mind, to write something interesting to a reader. I’m quite capable of writing something worthwhile, until I have a significant enough document to consider publishing it in my blog or putting it up for sale, depending on how much I find I have to say here.

This is what I call stream of consciousness writing. I take down the thoughts of my tranquil heart, one after the other. I think the more quickly I type, the more pleasant the reading, as I attempt to write this morning, conscious of the clock and the time of day. The time of day could ruin this whole attempt at writing fluently, as I work and work at making my thoughts into a reality on the page.

Even though it’s sunny out, and looks nice out, I have no ambition to venture outside of the building. Powder Ridge is a big building, and I don’t have to go out of doors to attend to anything whatsoever. I’m hoping for a nice piece of about three pages, at the moment, though still on page one at the moment.

I’m delighted to be writing as I race the clock to the bewitching hour of 11AM: time to eat.

One thing leads to another, and I’ve already told all my stories as well as I possibly can. I’m left with recording my thoughts, one after another, until something can give me a better idea. It’s not so bad, recording the workings of my own mind, for the benefit of whomever might want to read a blog. I have already registered one such writing this morning, and this is number two.

I think these people in this place are crazy. They want gourmet food for every meal, while I’m satisfied getting enough to survive three times per day. I’ve put on a little bit of weight since I’ve been here, which is understandable, considering the fact that I’m eating more regularly than I ever have. These people don’t understand what it’s like to starve, and be required to go to a hospital to survive.

The time is getting on, but I’m still keying in, and intend to key in some more work before I’m done. There is nothing in this constant state of being glutted on the most delectable food, and working on more of a story, within the quietude and privacy of my own suite. How utterly novel this is! I’ve already called attention to the trees outside, and maybe it’s time to tell you why.

I’ve enjoyed some very spiritual moments with trees, before being caught in a butterfly net and spirited off to a laughing academy with a county sheriff, where I happen to be in a deep state of insanity for a time. I’ve had that same experience repeat itself several times over in my life. There have been many a time when the trees have done things for me that one doesn’t hear of anywhere else.

There have been times the trees have given me valuable information about my environment in this world. It strikes a feeling of awe in me, at the presence of trees outside my window, that they would think so much of a man like me, to help me with my understanding of the issues of life so often as they’ve done throughout the years.

I think I’ll post this writing on my own blog, so if you want a whole lot more writing on some of the same subjects I’m brushing over here, you’ll have more of them at your disposal. I don’t know that I’ve done a lot of writing about the spirits of the trees, so I’ll add some of that here. I’ve gotten so I’ve participating with certain trees having conversations with me.

The idea that trees talk only substantiates the idea that the county sheriff came after me with a butterfly net, and spirited me off to a laughing academy. Someone who talks like me is estimated to be just a couple cans short of a six-pack. But it doesn’t worry me in the slightest. I’m operating my memory, not my current experience. Of course, if this were happening now, I’d be concerned.

I’m well aware that I’ve had a lot of experiences with not being in my right mind, since I definitely have a psychotic disorder, which flairs up on occasion. I’ve even been transferred by the county sheriff since I’ve been living in my brother’s town. He thought I was not doing well enough to get along in assisted living, so he made arrangements for me to be in a hospital for my birthday.

Somehow, the job wasn’t managed adequately the first time, so I had to ride with two more county sheriffs, and go to a different laughing academy. As far as I’m concerned, people just don’t have any respect for a Holy man, who hears the Word of the Lord with his own ears and sees visions with his own heart. I’m also pressed to swallow massive dosages of many medications, on a regular basis.

If a med tech were not in charge, I’d be in dire straights to get all these pills right.

The alarm of having a brother, who doesn’t understand that I’m a Holy man, who manipulates the system to get me incarcerated on a fairly regular basis, just happens to be a circumstance that I have to deal with, living as I do in his home town, where he’s occasionally consulted about my mental health. The one confidence I have is the presence of God, such that I’m free to live here alone.

I speak to my sister every weekend, and the way it seems to work is that I’ll say something to her about hearing voices or seeing visions, which are sacred things to do, in my book, reserved for Holy men like myself. My sister, who is a case manager for the mentally ill in Oregon, somehow gets my brother on the phone, which two never talk otherwise, and before you know it, poof!

I’m an inpatient in another laughing academy, like magic.

I mentioned this occurrence to Mary Kell this evening, and her ears perked up, while she asked if I happen to be hearing voices at the moment. I told her I was hearing her voice. There just isn’t a place for a Holy man in this God-forsaken country, unless you want to preach about Jesus Christ. Of course, if you want to do that, I don’t want to listen to you, much less be the person talking.

It’s my experience that those who preach about Jesus Christ are hypocrites and money mongers, and don’t care anything for anyone, unless you’re likely to line their pockets with green paper. If there happens to be any another type of Holy man around, who sees visions and dreams dreams, there are plenty of people who want to lock up the poor bastard over the idea that he has sacred experiences.

I have no idea what to do to get any reverence or any respect from either my sister or my brother, and avoiding either one of them over the telephone is out of the question. For one thing, I happen to love my sister, and have a great respect for my brother, whom I’ve moved closer to, so I could live within a short drive of the man.

I have no idea how to keep from breaking out in spots.

You know what I mean about breaking out breaking out in spots. I mean spots like Broughton Hospital, Springfield or Spring Grove Hospital, and Lord only knows the lockups they have here in the vicinity of Powder Ridge, where there just happens to be a lot of places I’ve never heard of in my lifetime. There are those who would manage to arrange to put me back in Chesapeake psych ward.

The only way I can figure how to avoid getting locked up in another laughing academy, is to avoid talking about having such experiences as seeing visions or dreaming dreams altogether, which sort of defeats God’s reason for giving me visions or allowing me to hear voices in the first place. It’s been awhile, but I just wanted to make a statement that trees have talked to me in the past.

I’ve also had the privilege of witnessing the sacred spirits of the trees, or what I’ve called the sacred life force of the trees, in my own past. There were times I’ve known the spirits of many such life forces, like knowing the sacred life force of a Bambi, or the sacred life force of a tree, but please don’t call an ambulance. I’m doing just fine.


About geostan51

I'm a wordsmith and a craftsman. I've been known to hand crochet just about anything escept granny squares. I've got about twenty titles in my name on the Kindle Store at
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